


Power Play

by comegentlenight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and The Winter Soldier (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood Kink, Bondage, Choking, Couch Sex, Cunnilingus, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Good Boyfriend Bucky Barnes, Hair-pulling, Knifeplay, Mentions of Lady Gaga, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Reader has some self-esteem issues, Rough Sex, Smut, Table Sex, This Is STUPID, Unprotected Sex, bucky's metal arm kink, cuckolding (kind of??), dry wall punching but make it sexy, i am a serious writer who totally doesn't quote tiktoks in their writing, i really like hyphens apparently, reader also has hair so it can be pulled i'm sorry, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comegentlenight/pseuds/comegentlenight
Summary: You're a black market weapons dealer with little else going for you. You've run into the Winter Soldier twice now and you've thankfully managed to get away both times... so when you come home to find him chained up in your living room, you start to question your lifestyle choices.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 127





	1. Power Play

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my best friend, who encouraged me to write this and also patiently listened to me talk non-stop about it for two days while doing so. This is the first time I'm publishing my smut so it'll be an adventure for everyone, please be nice.

Stealing weapons for black market dealers isn’t the _ideal_ job, of course, but it has its perks. You have no boss, just a partner-in-crime, who’s sometimes your partner in other areas. You make a shitload of money, enough to get you a penthouse in the middle of Manhattan with a fancy doorman to check and make sure you aren’t a thief. Little do they know.

You’re as pleased as you can be- it isn’t honest work, but you don’t have any other options. You aren’t superb with people and you don’t fit in with a desk job. Riker treats you better than you expect to be treated, which is not great, to say the least. The skeptical side of your brain knows you should be treated better. The emotional side says you don’t deserve it. And thus, you sometimes question your life choices, but don’t do much to change the tide. There hasn’t been anything much better for you than what you already have.

Until now.

It started at Avengers tower. The damn briefcase full of bullet sized explosives powerful enough to blow the entire city off its foundations- a remnant from SHIELD’s experimentation with tesseract powered weapons, supposedly- was the asset you were sent to collect when you met him.

You snuck in easily, wearing a sleek two piece suit that complimented your eyes. Look the part, act the part, no one would be suspicious. Getting the asset wasn’t the problem, but making it out of the building apparently was. You rounded the corner at the wrong time, not hearing the elevator open directly down the hall from you. The panic set in when the door opened, and you were faced with not only one, but two Avengers in your path.

The Falcon- _Sam Wilson, wasn’t it?-_ was gesticulating emphatically to some very important point, focusing blindly on something in the air in front of him. And next to him, obviously only half listening, was the Winter Soldier.

No, _Bucky Barnes._ You reminded yourself that they were just men, and men were prone to folly. Bucky’s eyes were shrewd and perceptive, focusing on you almost immediately as the doors opened. You didn’t break your stride. You kept your eyes on the elevator, and tried for all the world to just look like you had somewhere to be.

 _“September._ It’s in September, and he thought I said June. How does that even sound-” Sam was saying as the two stepped out of the elevator into the hallway, but Bucky was still looking at you. And then his eyes fell to the briefcase.

“That’s not yours,” Bucky suddenly stated, finger pointed at you sternly like you were a child misbehaving on a playground.

You stopped walking a quarter of the hallway down, keeping your stance nonchalant. You cocked your head, lifting the briefcase as though it were nothing of importance. You ran through the bits of information you’d collected during your research on the Avengers for this very occasion, searching for a name. “Of course it’s not mine. Director Hill sent me to retrieve it.”

Sam had stopped talking now, staring warily at you from Bucky’s left. Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

“Director Hill is on maternity leave.”

Shit. You paused for only a second, mind running through an escape route as fast as possible. _Riker is outside in the getaway car. I’m on the fifteenth floor. That’s roughly 180 feet. If I jump my chances of survival would normally be slim, but I have a grappling hook._

You made your decision, and wasted no time in implementing it. Your hand flew to the handle of the knife in your breast pocket- one flick of your wrist, and the knife was flying straight for Bucky. You barely saw Bucky deflect the knife somehow before you were already sprinting down the hallway toward the glass window.

“Change of plans,” you briefly spoke into your earpiece before you crashed through the glass and free fell off of the fifteenth floor.

_“Don’t tell me you’re falling from the building with those explosives!”_

The hook was hair triggered, your own hack job design that fit under the sleeve of your jacket. A touch of a button, and you swung smoothly down from around the ninth floor. You touched the ground at a run, cut the wire, and jumped into the car less than a second before the gunshots began from the fifteenth floor.

That was the first time. The second time was less glamorous and suave. The backdrop was a seedy mafia-run strip club in LA; you had just closed a deal on some wild piece of Chitauri equipment from the Battle of New York, a big clunky handgun of sorts. Riker was who-knows-where, likely in one of the dozen rooms in the private area having a blessed time.

You had little patience for waiting around. As much as you loved the sight of bodies gyrating to Judas by Lady Gaga, the dim red light of the back rooms was giving you a headache, and you thought if you smelled another cuban cigar you might throw up. You handcuffed the briefcase with your earnings in it to your wrist, sent Riker a text- he could always call himself a damn Uber- and headed out.

And, just in keeping with the last time, you rounded the corner to come face to face with the Winter Soldier at the other end of the hall of locked doors leading to red rooms.

You stared at each other for a moment before recognition set in. He didn’t look the part of one to frequent a strip club: leather jacket buttoned to his earlobes, decked out in weapons, and was that a fucking metal arm? You, on the other hand, were dressed the part, as per usual. Black blazer over a lace bra, leather pants, and quite high heels. You weren’t expecting a fight, but didn’t want to attract strange looks in a room full of sex workers.

You pointed at him accusingly, your shock written all over your face. _What the fuck was he doing here?_ “Bestie, I’m afraid to ask you this-”

 _“You.”_ He started down the hallway for you, and this time you had nowhere to escape to. “Stealing another briefcase, are we?”

He was backing you into a corner. You could either run back to a room full of less than kind mafiosos, or claw your way out. You figured you would take your chances.

“Actually, this one’s mine.” You lunged at him, but greatly overestimated your own agility; Bucky grabbed you by the waist like you were nothing and slammed you into the wall right beside a fire engine colored door. His eyes were nearly glowing in the red light.

“What are you doing here?” His forearm was pressed against your throat. Yes, that was indeed metal. Cold, unforgiving, unyielding metal. You looked down your nose at him as the metal pressed in, thinking for a brief second that you kind of… _liked it._

“Collecting a paycheck.” You swung the arm handcuffed to the briefcase upwards and cracked him across the head with it. As he lost his footing, you slid to your feet and brought your knee upwards, finding purchase somewhere obviously sensitive.

He doubled over, but threw himself forward at the same time in order to knock you down, pinning you against the floor with his full weight.

“Jesus _christ,_ what do you bench?” You could feel where there would be bruises in the morning, fresh impact marks against your ribs and arms.

As his knee came up between your legs, the hand of his metal arm thudded down heavily against the tile beside your head, the clang of it resounding like a warning bell in your ears. When he raised his head, there was a look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and suddenly you were all-too-aware of the pressure of his knee against your cunt.

_“Easily more than you.”_

He growled it, deep within his throat. You could hear the rumble of it even through the booming bass of the music in the club. You stopped, unsure of your next move. How could you do anything when he was staring down at you like you were something he could destroy, looming over you like you were so _small,_ crushing his leg up against your core and making you want to squirm against it just a bit, just enough...

All at once, the air rushed back into your lungs. You sobered enough to bring your thighs to either side of his hips and knock him sideways, roll him over and straddle him. _Oh, he was hard._ You registered the thought and the look of amusement on his face as you rolled your hips just slightly against his, friction rubbing up against something absolutely wonderful. You bit your lip, swallowing back the moan that was threatening to spill out as his right hand grazed across your thigh.

Then you slammed the briefcase down into his chest hard enough to crack a normal person’s bone- you didn’t think you even bruised him, though. You jumped up before he could grab you again, and you were suddenly causing more of a scene running through the club than you would have had you shown up in a nun’s costume.

Later, you wondered if he let you get away. After enough time mulling it over, enough nights with your fingers wandering down below your waistband and your mind cleared after bringing yourself to orgasm, you concluded with absolute certainty that he did. There was no way you could ever overpower the Winter Soldier. The man had a god damn metal arm.

And you hoped that you would never come face to face with him again, because you didn’t think you would be able to put up a fight if you did.

***

You’re not normally much of a superstitious person, but this has got to be some cruel trick of fate.

The Winter Soldier is chained to a chair in your living room. Because of _course_ he is, it wouldn’t make much sense if you didn’t come home to a restrained Avenger, right?

You stare at him for a moment, expressionless. There’s really too much going on in your head to come up with an expression to cover it all. You drop your bag onto the kitchen counter and cock your head to the side, taking in the sight of him.

He’s not wearing some wild stealth suit or leather-based getup. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, and a simple pair of motorcycle boots. He has a spot of blood on his cheek, and he looks somehow like he was waiting to see you. He hardly looks like a man on a mission-

But then you see all the weapons discarded on the table, obviously taken off of him; knives and guns and little handheld explosives. And then Riker comes out of your bedroom drying his hands on his slacks. His nose has been bleeding. It’s swollen, and it looks like he has a black eye. Despite this, his blonde hair is combed back and he’s dressed like he’s going to a business meeting.

“Did I walk in on something?” You ask sarcastically, eyeing both him and Bucky in disbelief.

“Hardly.” Bucky’s staring at you with his head tilted down, looking displeased but not overly concerned with the situation.

“I found your friend here going through our things,” Riker states, his back turned to the both of you. He’s clipping on his wristwatch, the good one. So he is going to a business meeting, which means he didn’t bother to tell you about it. “He tore up half the bedroom.”

“No, he tore up the bedroom when he tried to stab me,” Bucky objects. Riker turns around and whacks Bucky across the back of the head, probably hurting his hand in the process. Bucky just licks his lips and shakes his head.

“Those chains aren’t going to do anything,” you observe, eyeing the steel automotive chain wrapped around Bucky and the wooden dining chair he’s in. It’s a silly looking setup, even if he weren’t a super soldier.

“That’s why I used the Asgardian cuffs,” Riker says.

 _Oh, right._ Those funky little handcuffs you swiped from an underground relics collector in the spring. Asgardian items have been in high demand these days since New Asgard was founded. You’re still waiting on a final offer from a buyer. The cuffs are supposedly impossible to break and can prevent an Asgardian from using any of their predisposed gifts, but you wonder how much of that covers human ingenuity.

“I’m still confused,” you say, watching Riker pick up a case sitting on the dining table. “What exactly happened? Where are you going?”

“You’ll have to ask him all the questions, I have to make a sale.” Riker walks towards you, straightening his tie. Before he walks past you he grabs your chin, pulling your face to look directly at him. “Don’t fuck up this time.”

A sinking feeling in your gut takes hold before you can think of a response. “A sale to whom?” You turn to watch him walk into the kitchen, on his way out the door.

“A buyer. That’s really all you need to know.” Riker leaves without saying goodbye.

Yes, that’s just about on par with your partner’s normal behavior, although now you think he must be profiting off sales and not giving you your share, which means you now have a big problem on your hands. These thoughts run through your head as you stare out your window to watch the sky dim over Manhattan.

It’s the small _tick tick_ sound that pulls you from your thoughts. You can see from the reflection in the glass how Bucky is struggling with something behind his back.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

You turn around. Bucky is sitting completely still, feigning innocence. You don’t think for a moment that he’s worried about his position. Something tells you that he wants to be where he is, and that it would take him nothing at all to break out of those chains, and the handcuffs- hell, break the entire chair.

You step toward him, and the look on his face turns from innocence to arrogance.

“Okay, soldier,” you lean against the kitchen island, face to face with him, “tell me what you were looking for.”

“Conveniently, the handcuffs.”

“Mm. You have an interesting way of finding them.”

“Efficient.” He has a coy smile on his face, like this is how he just makes small talk. “You’ve stolen a few important weapons from us. I figured I’d come and see what I could get back.”

You can see the muscle in his bicep working. He’s still doing something behind his back, and he’s trying to distract you from it.

“And you let my partner get the best of you?”

“That’s your partner?” Bucky has the decency to look shocked at the notion. “In what way?”

You say nothing. His arm stops moving, for the moment. Your silence seems to have answered for you, though, and Bucky smirks. “Huh. That’s too bad.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re too good for him.”

For half a second you almost believe him, almost entertain the idea that this mercenary-turned-superhero could somehow see the good in you. But then his arm starts moving again, and the shred of surprise on your face dies.

“You don’t know that.” He tilts his head at you, surveying your face. “All you know is that I’m a thief who’s stolen from you and escaped you twice.”

“Once.”

You pause, your eyes narrowing at him. You push away from the counter and walk toward him, stopping just between his knees. He’s staring directly up into your face, and he can probably see every thought passing through your head.

“What did you say?”

“You escaped from me _once,”_ Bucky repeats, smiling as though he's trying not to laugh. “A grappling hook. Very nice. I’d like to see what kind of contraption you had-”

He trails off as he watches you lift your hands and tie your hair back, exposing your neck and shoulders. You don’t know why, but you maintain eye contact with him, like you’re daring him to look away.

“And the second time?”

It takes Bucky just a moment too long to answer you. His smile is gone, and he’s staring at your neck like he’d rather take a bite out of it. “I let you go.”

You slowly and deliberately place each knee on either side of his lap, then lower yourself onto him so that you’re straddling him, keeping his eye the entire time, watching as his expressions betray him. He’s surprised, and he’s delighted, and he’s entirely distracted by your chest. You lean in, close enough to feel his breath, but not close enough to touch his skin…

And then your hands find the cuffs on his wrists behind his back, and you snap the one he had managed to pick closed again.

He pulls back just slightly, enough to look you in the eye and give you his look of shock. You can see every little fleck of green in his eyes, and remember how they scorched you that night in the club.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your lips as your hand finds the pick between his fingers. You hesitate for a moment, hand hovering there over the shard of metal, feeling him twirl it in his fingers as he watches your face. Then you make your decision and your hand slides back, over the metal of the cuff and up the skin of his wrist, and he smiles knowingly. “You think you can beat me, darling? I’m a lot stronger than you.”

“Oh, I know you are.” Your hand trails up his arm, coming to rest on the curve of his shoulder. “That just means I have to beat you.”

You can feel his erection through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. The warmth of his body against yours makes you feel like you might just die; heat is spreading through your core, your cunt clenching down on nothing, aching for some kind of attention.

“How would you do it?” He says it in a whisper now, a ghost across your skin. Your nose touches his, one tilt of the head could lead to something very dangerous.

You pull back to look at his metal arm, beautiful and intimidating in black and gold. You run your fingers down the grooves of it, feeling the coolness of it against your skin.

“I’d figure out how this works first,” you tell him honestly, a bit hypnotized by the finery of it. You’re not an engineer, or even an expert on weapons development, but you know a good thing when you see it. The artistry and technology of it has to be unlike anything you’ve ever seen, even Asgardian.

“What’s your theory?”

“It’s a prosthetic,” your voice changes and suddenly you’re not whispering seductively anymore, you’re just talking, head tilted to the side and analyzing the metalwork. “Probably some sort of advanced bioengineering that makes it work. Probably doubles as a weapon, though.”

“Pretty close,” he says, and you look back to him. He looks impressed, like you did get something right but he doesn’t want to tell you which part. “It’s just my arm, babe.”

You smirk, your fingers still running along the metal. “So you can feel things with it?”

He gives you a low, _“mhm,”_ purring like some kind of caged animal biding its time. It reminds you that he basically is one. And you’re sitting on his lap.

You have an idea, and it’s probably terrible, but what else is new? “Well, I can’t compete with that,” you tell him simply.

“No?”

“No.” You shake your head slightly, your hair swinging with the movement. “So I’ll have to improvise.”

And then you roll your hips forward, pressing your core hard against his cock, your fingers digging into his shoulder and trying their best with the metal, and the friction is blissful. The look on Bucky’s face is ungodly, somewhere between ecstacy and desperation. The chains creak against his arms, and you think for a second he might break them, but then he grunts out a deep sigh and the chains relax. He’s playing at something with this, you realize. It’s some kind of fantasy, a test of his restraint; or maybe he just wants to see what you’ll do, having him all tied up and to yourself.

You realize that you like it too.

Your face is flushed, you can feel it. It’s mimicking the heat in your cunt as you grind against him, eyes fluttering shut just for a second as you’re lost in the feeling. Yes, you like it _very much,_ and you’re trying to determine if that’s a good thing.

You shift slightly to the right and grab one of his knives from the coffee table, bringing it up to his collarbone. You roll your hips against his thigh now, pressing the tip of the blade down and slicing an inch of his shirt collar, drawing with it a strip of blood. You earn a groan from him, his head tilting back and his mouth hanging open slightly, staring at you in surprise. He shifts his hips suddenly, trying in vain to find that friction again, but you pull back. You bear down on his thigh, rocking forward. You force his head backward with your fingers against his jaw, feeling his adam’s apple bob against your palm, and then you run your tongue along the wound you just gave him with his own knife.

He whispers a curse, but he barely gets it out before you close your mouth over his, the taste of his blood still on your tongue. He moans into your mouth, and you only just realize how much you wanted this, wanted to feel and touch and taste him from the moment he put his hands on you the first time.

You run the knife down the length of his arm, then let it drop to the carpet. His mouth is sweeter than his blood, you conclude, and the friction against his thigh is nice, but it’s not enough.

“Remember when you slammed me against the wall?” You breathe into his mouth as his tongue runs across your lip, your hand still closed around his jaw.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, panting as you crush yourself against his chest.

“Do it again.”

His eyes snap open to look at you, to register your words fully. Then, without blinking, he pulls his arms apart like steel chains are barely stronger than paper. The sound of the links breaking cuts through the air and shards of metal rain down onto the carpet, the remains of the chain slithering down his chest and across his lap, some sliding onto the floor, some trapped between where you’re pressed against him.

His arms come up to grab your hips, completely free of the cuffs. You know the implications of it; he’s been free this whole time. It probably took less than ten seconds from the time you left the pick in his hand for him to get free again, and he spent the rest of it just letting you tease him, holding back on purpose. You’re baffled, and you’re flattered, but most of all you’re so incredibly horny for him that you don’t even know how to process it.

So you don’t. You let him lift you by the backs of your thighs, your legs wrapped around his waist and your hands on his shoulders, as he stands and takes two steps across the room, chains falling to the ground. And he slams you against the wall, so hard you can feel the plaster give against your back, but it doesn’t hurt. No, it thrills.

His mouth is on your neck this time, and it’s so much better than his forearm. There’s a sharp pain when he sinks his teeth in at the junction of your shoulder, and the cry that leaves your mouth is obscene in its volume, ripping from your throat before you can control it.

Your fingers curl around the collar of his shirt on either side of the cut you made and yank, tearing it down the front until it’s in two pieces, and you can run your hands down the burning skin of his chest. He has you pinned to the wall by his hips, and he lets go of you long enough to let the torn fabric fall to the floor before his hand is on your ass, pulling you harder against him- and when you run your fingernails down his bare back hard enough to leave marks, probably enough to draw blood, his metal hand slams against the wall beside your head, punching a hole directly through it.

You gasp loudly into his mouth, feeling cool metal slide down your neck and across your shoulder, then ripping your shirt clean from your torso without much ceremony. Your bare chest is pressed against his, and it’s divine. It’s something about the way your nipple catches on the metal plate stretching across the left side of his chest that makes you shiver.

“Why didn’t we do this before?” You ask him, eyes half closed as his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head as he kisses you, sucking your lip between his teeth while you try to talk.

“You didn’t give me the time.”

“I would have.”

“No,” he mumbles as he trails his lips along your jaw, breaking away to graze the shell of your ear. “I think you like being in control.”

A whimper falls from your lips as he pulls your hair loose, letting it fall down again. You bite down on your lip as his fingers weave through your hair against your scalp and tighten.

“You’re gonna prove me wrong, aren’t you?” Your words are punctuated with a small whine when he yanks your head back, exposing your neck, and he licks one long stripe from your collarbone up to your chin.

“I’m gonna try my best.” His hand remains tight in your hair, but his metal arm supports you as he turns away from the wall, carrying you back across the room. His lips remain on you, hand holding your head still. You can’t turn and kiss him, can’t taste him, you can only cling to him as he turns and bends at the waist.

Your back makes contact with the couch, rough woven fabric sliding against your spine. His lips are trailing down your chest and your head is spinning, focused on the feeling of him and where his hands have found the clasp of your jeans. He holds your hips still, and he slides your jeans and underwear off in one swift move, taking your shoes with them, leaving you naked and exposed with your ass resting on the arm of the couch, legs spread before him.

You feel like you’re on display, the sudden rush of cool air on your wetness too much for you to bear. You wish he’d hurry up; you make a sound of protest, arch your back into nothing, hoping for some kind of absolution to your need. His hands are on your knees, one finger tapping against your skin as if he’s thinking of all his options, calculating his next move.

“Which hand do you prefer?” He asks, and you feel the heavy thud in your chest like thunder.

You meet his gaze, and it’s locked in on you and your every expression. You think for a second that he can read your mind; but then again, if he could he wouldn’t be asking.

“You know which one.” _Oh, he certainly does._ With a smirk he slides his metal hand down your thigh, pausing just at the plush joint of your leg before he slips one finger up your slit, feeling how wet you are in want of him.

“You’ve been waiting for this haven’t you?” His voice is like velvet, soft and dark and you can’t help but feel overwhelmed with him and the way he slides two fingers deep inside of you, holding onto something devastating, like he wants to pull you back off the couch and into him just with those two fingers alone.

You cry out at the pressure, but manage to reel in the sound at the same time. “You have no idea,” you stutter out, and it’s honestly the truth. He can’t possibly know about all the nights you’ve spent thinking of being in this exact position, letting him do whatever he fucking wants with you. He can’t possibly know all the dirty thoughts you’ve had about him every time you hear his name on the news, every time you have to research some new artifact in the Avengers’ possession, the idea of you coming face to face with him again.

And the fact that he sought you out instead…

He must be able to feel with that metal arm, because he’s hitting the right spot every time. He has one arm on the backrest of the couch and the other is trained on you, his hand hard against you, inside of you. The coolness of it shocks your clit as his thumb grazes it, but within you is a deep searing heat that feels like it’s going to burst forth into something immaculate.

“God, I’m gonna-” you cut off with a gasp, an aching cry as your hips come off the couch and roll against his hand.

 _“I know,”_ he says, sounding almost like he pities you. And God, if it isn’t the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever heard. You come against his hand, eyes shut and muscles tightening against him, feeling just how hard that metal is. By his sigh, you think he feels it too.

You sink into the cushion, feeling like you’ve given him everything that you have. But you haven’t, and you both know it. You open your eyes as his fingers pull achingly away from you, and watch as he sucks them into his mouth, cleaning them with his tongue the way you wish he’d do to you.

He tilts his head to the side as he stares down at you, his hand now resting on your knee. “You’re so sweet, honey.”

You take in a shuddering breath, almost embarrassed by how it stutters in your chest.

“Too sweet for him.”

 _Oh my fucking god._ Why did he have to say it like that, with his eyes glued to yours, with you coming down from the euphoria he had just brought you to? No, you’re absolutely not in control anymore, that much is certain- and you can believe just about anything that leaves his sinful mouth.

“God, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m gonna-” you say, your head reeling and your pulse pounding, the heat between your legs still pulsing, “I’m gonna-”

“Gonna what?” He bends over you, metal hand pressing deep into the cushion beside you like it had just done to you a moment ago. “What will you do?” In his blue eyes is something captivating, pulling you out of your own head and keeping you trapped. He has you trapped, lock and key, and you fucking love it. You love it a lot more than you loved having him trapped.

His hands have undone his jeans, and boy, you’re in for it. He’s long and hard and _fuck-_ if you hadn’t already been absolutely dripping for him, now you are. He pulls you by the hips and presses into you, and you give a soft moan of anticipation. Every moment from the first time you saw him, every night spent wanting him-

It’s absolute heaven. You didn’t even know if it existed, and yet here you are; you imagine this is as close as you can get to it while still breathing. He’s so deep inside of you, you can feel every inch of him, every pulsing vein. You stop and consciously breathe out, hands gripping hard against his biceps as he leans over you. There’s a moment of silence, of just feeling, and then…

Bucky pulls back and thrusts forward, rocking you into the couch, and he hits that same spot that’s already swollen from your last orgasm. You pound your fist against his arm with a gasp and the metal hardly relents. He makes a sound of his own, deep in the back of his throat, pulled from frustration and pent up desire, and you absolutely love it.

You arch your back as he sets a heavy pace, and he’s brutal, positively slamming into you and likely leaving marks you’ll see in the morning. You don’t fucking care, honestly; if anything, the desperation of it is sexy, it’s more passionate than anything you’ve felt before, and if there’s evidence left over you’ll be happy to have it. You just want to feel him, every bit of him, and he certainly seems glad to give it to you.

You tighten down on him, fingernails trailing down the sides of his biceps, and his hips stutter. _Yes…_ he comes with a growl, one single thumb digging into your hip bone so hard that it will most certainly bruise, and you’re thrown into another orgasm of your own, a high pitched cry issuing from your throat as your hips surge forward against him.

You’re both left out of breath, staring at each other through the haze of it. You pull lightly against his shoulder and he buckles, melting into you over the armrest as though you were in a proper bed and he had nowhere else to be in the world except collapsed between your legs.

You wish you could keep him here forever. Some little part of you thinks you can, imagines you drinking coffee in the morning and sending him off to Avengers tower with a goodbye kiss. But then the reality of the situation sets in, and you remember that Riker can be back at any moment.

You allow yourself one more moment of bliss, though. Just for your own sanity.

You push your fingers through Bucky’s hair where his head lays on your chest, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your breast as he comes down. You realize that when he’s not actively trying to seduce you, he’s very much a kisser, pressing his lips to your skin every so often like he’s just trying to remind himself that you’re there. You can feel him still inside of you and you hope he’ll stay as long as possible, hope he won’t sober up and decide he hates you after all.

“I meant it, you know,” he mumbles after a moment. You feel it vibrate against your skin as you can feel everything else, hypersensitive and overly aware. “You’re too good. Don’t deserve him. This life.”

You tilt your head down and watch him as he lifts his own head. His chin rests against your sternum, eyes fluttering shut for a second before he opens them again and finds your eyes, all seriousness and clarity through the drowsiness. “Come with me.”

You stare at him for a moment, eyes searching for the lie, the double cross. You try to find it, but there isn’t one. “What?”

“Might have a little more bureaucracy than a black market job, but,” Bucky closed his eyes and sighed again, his breath puffing out against your skin through his nose, “you could still afford a place like this. Give you an extraction mission, maybe two. You’d be a good field operative.”

You swallow, trying to make some sense of his words. Your head drops back against the cushion and your fingers still push through his hair, so soft against your hand. “Did you honestly come tonight to offer me a job?”

“That and the handcuffs.”

You hum a nonverbal response, still weighing your options. On one hand you have your familiar life with a backstabbing partner and dishonest but exciting work that you excel in. On the other you have a fantastic sex life with a super soldier but an unforseeable career, possibly rigorous training under the unfavorable gaze of agents who look down on you for your previous line of work. It seems like comparing apples to apples.

“Wouldn’t even have to find a new place,” Bucky mumbles against your skin again, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts. “Just pack a bag and come to mine.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you say incredulously, echoing the conversation that brought you to this position in the first place.

“Sure I do,” he replies, resting his cheek against your breast. “You take your coffee with milk and no sugar. You keep your underwear in the top drawer and you do most of the heavy lifting while your partner takes all the credit.”

You pause, a smirk on your face. He gathered all that from sneaking around your house, looking in your fridge and your dresser and probably every other nook and cranny he could find. It reminds you just how perceptive he is, as he was the first time he saw you and pegged you as an enemy. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, you keep your dream journal under your side of the mattress.”

You smack his shoulder with your palm as he laughs, a blush creeping to your cheeks.

“Didn’t know I had that much of an effect on you, doll-”

“Enough!” You push yourself up onto your elbows to watch him smile and pull back with your movement. “So you snooped around my house-”

“I was looking for the-”

“-Handcuffs, yeah.” You take a deep breath, rolling your shoulders. “So, say I went with you. What would be expected of me?”

“Mandatory training. A couple profiles, probably, based on your line of work. And then,” he presses a kiss to your breast, just above your nipple, making your breath hitch, “you’d get to work with me.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“You can get anything you want from me, sweetheart,” he says, and laces his fingers through yours against the cushion. “Just so long as you drop the asshole that left you to babysit a super soldier by yourself with no explanation as to why.”

You gaze at him for a moment, squeezing his hand. “Seems like you beat the crap out of him anyways.”

“Yeah, and he still left you alone with me.” Bucky tilted his head sideways, staring up at you coyly. “What a guy.”

“I think I did pretty well under the circumstances.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I have you between my legs, don’t I?”

Bucky snorts and pulls away from you, standing back and stretching. “That’s another thing,” he says as you haul yourself up. “I don’t have a shirt to speak for.”

“I can pack you one to go, can’t I?” You stare at him innocently as he buttons his jeans, his eyes wandering over you briefly.

“Does that mean you’re coming with me?”

“Sure,” you tilt your head to the side, a smile on your face. “You’ve already seen me naked, so my only other option is to kill you and I don’t really feel like getting my hands dirty.”

Bucky reaches forward and takes one of your hands, then inspects it closely. There’s a spot of red under the middle nail, a bit of his blood from where you scraped your nails down his back.

“Oh, I think your hands are already dirty, honey,” he says and kisses your fingertips, trailing his tongue along the nails and tasting himself on your hand.

You clench your jaw as you feel the heat of his mouth on your fingers. _Yes. This is much, much better._


	2. The Key to Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and they were ROOMMATES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops this is a series now. i wrote this while streaming somebody else by the 1975 on repeat so listen to that for atmosphere i guess

You didn’t expect living with a super soldier would be so _domestic._

Truthfully, you don’t really know what you did expect. It takes a total of a day for every one of your personal belongings to appear out of thin air in the little room that’s clearly supposed to be an office, but has been neglected for so long that the door is nearly rusted shut. You don’t know how he did it, and you absolutely refuse to ask. The silence is palpable over breakfast the morning after you wake up to a pile of your clothes at the end of your makeshift bed, especially after he slides a cup of café au lait in front of you, a little smirk on his face. 

His apartment is on the third floor of an old building in Brooklyn. If you had to take a guess you’d date it to around the 1920s, but you’re not that knowledgeable in architecture. You just know that the iron radiator against the window in the office is older than dirt, and gives off a cloud of smoke if you try to turn it on. The kitchen was updated probably sometime in the early 2000s, but it doesn’t take away from the old-world charm of the place. After three days, you conclude that you like it more than the colorless modernity of the high-brow bachelor pad you were living in before. This reminds you more of your childhood home and less of an uncomfortable facade. 

It doesn’t take you long to start picking up on Bucky’s habits. He has a ritual of putting a can of tuna out for a stray cat on the fire escape every morning. It’s almost cute in its juxtaposition to the rest of him. You tend to watch out of the corner of your eye each morning as he cracks the can open and nearly tosses it out the window like it’s the last thing on his mind. The cat comes along at the same time every day, and you think you hear him call it “Princess” at one point, but you can’t be entirely sure. 

You guess that being an Avenger is an on-call type of job, since he spends three whole days at home, only going out for a run in the mornings before the sun is up. One of these mornings you’re up early as well, and you watch him pass by on the street below on his way back into the building as you recline on the fire escape steps, watching the sky slowly turn perriwinkle with morning light. 

The fire escape creaks just behind you, and then you feel a soft bump against your elbow. Princess comes skirting around you, prodding at your thigh like it's something foreign. Then she resigns herself and crawls across your legs, and curls into a ball between them. You stare down at the orange lump of fur, amused and flattered. You can hear her purring loudly, and it’s a welcome moment of serenity, lounging to the early morning sounds of the city with a cat dozing in your lap.

Through the open window, you see Bucky enter the kitchen in your peripheral vision. He’s so quiet you wouldn’t have known he was there, had you not been hyper aware of everything around you. 

“I’m being held hostage,” you say as he comes up to the window and leans against the pane, already holding the obligatory can of tuna in his hand. 

“She’s discovered the key to true happiness,” he muses as he opens the can and sets it beside you on the escape. He’s wearing gloves under a dark blue jacket, and for a moment you’re captivated by the sight of the oil dripping down the side of the can onto the black leather. 

You look up to meet his eye and find him staring you in the face. “And what’s that?” 

“Being between your thighs.” Then he lifts his hand and licks the oil from his gloved fingers and pushes away from the window, leaving you to stew in your thoughts on the fire escape. 

He doesn’t make a move on you after that, and you don’t know if it’s because he’s not interested or if he’s waiting for you to take the next step. Up until this point you both have made easy conversation like two roommates who are just trying to be friends. He’s so beautiful that you almost hate him for it, but he’s also kind and patient when you ask him questions randomly throughout the day. 

“What happened to your arm?” You ask him at one point, resting your chin on your hands over the back of the couch, watching him fiddle with the accursed Asgardian handcuffs you had picked up on your way out of your old apartment.

“Fell off a train in ‘44,” he says as he jams a screwdriver into the mechanism and it zaps him with an electric shock. He drops it onto the dining table while it glows blue around the edges. “So that’s how it works.” 

You stare at him for a long second, squinting like you’re trying to read some kind of fine print. “How old are you?”

“Give or take I’d say about a hundred and three.” He lifts the handcuffs by the chain and touches the screwdriver to the blue electric halo inside them, causing it to pop a few sparks. “Did you know these weren’t even on when you cuffed me?”

“You don’t know how old you are?” You sink back on the couch cushion, feeling almost like you’re being pranked. 

“Well it’s kind of hard to keep track with all the dying and being brought back to life.”

“What?”

He looks over at you finally, smiling like he thinks your confusion is cute. He rests his chin on his hands, disregarding the cuffs on the table. “What _do_ you know about me?”

Your mind immediately flies through an array of lewd replies. _Well, I know how you taste. I know what your skin feels like against mine, I know what your face looks like when I make you bleed._ If your stream of consciousness shows on your face, he doesn’t give a hint to it. He just stares at you patiently, waiting for your answer. 

You clear your throat and sit up a little further to rest your hands on the back of the couch again. “Not enough to write a profile on you,” you say, and you pause as you remember the bits and pieces you picked up via late nights planning routes through Avengers tower, noting key people you might run into along the way. “You were all over the news a while back when all those SHIELD files were leaked. And with that U.N. bombing.” You pause to consider your next words carefully. “You were… an assassin. You’re a super soldier, like Captain America. You were friends with him, right?”

There’s a bit of sadness behind his smile when he nods at you. “We grew up together.” He shifts and leans back in his seat with his arms crossed. He stares at the table for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, and then he sighs heavily and raises his eyebrows, like even he doesn’t believe what he’s telling you. “Well, I was born in 1917… I fell off a train in 1944 and Hydra found me without my arm and turned me into a super soldier, so my lifespan was significantly extended. Then I died in the Snap, but I was brought back to life and I don’t think I aged, so here we are.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and you mean it. You can’t imagine what it would be like to live your life in a constant state of rest while the world goes on without you. You weren’t one of the many who were tossed into oblivion due to the so-called ‘Snap;’ you remained and lived through the entire five years, just trying to make it in a lawless world. In many cases, you blamed those five years for turning you into a criminal.

He stands up and walks toward you, a look of amusement on his face. You sink backward slightly as he gets closer, and then he chucks you under the chin with his finger.

“Not your fault,” he says, and then he disappears into the master bedroom without missing a beat. You watch after him and wonder if he’s had to explain his life story to so many people that he’s unfazed by it at this point, or if he’s simply trying to mask the pain. Whatever the truth is, it doesn’t make a difference to the erratic pounding in your chest.

***

So, you’re pretty sure you like him a little too much, and it scares you.

It keeps you up at night. Far into the early hours of the morning on the fourth day, you’re tossing and turning with a million thoughts running through your head. It’s not that Bucky frightens you, even if he is one step away from being some kind of immortal god. It’s the ease of it all, the way he doesn’t ask anything from you, doesn’t seem to expect you to crawl into his bed at night, doesn’t really expect you to even give him the time of day. You know it’s the bare minimum, but it’s all so _foreign…_ and then you wonder why he asked you to stay with him in the first place, if he didn’t want anything from you. 

You wonder if he even really likes you. 

_Jesus Christ._ You sit up and a rush of cool air hits your bare skin, making you shiver. _It’s too damn cold in this room-_ the radiator wouldn’t work when you tried it before you went to bed, so you had to make do with half a dozen blankets. You check the time; 2:47 AM. Somehow you thought it was later, but you guess 2 AM is just as bad as 4 AM in the grand scheme of things. 

You pull on an oversized sweater to cover your nakedness; you pause briefly as you adjust the waistband around the tops of your thighs. The bruises are still there on your skin, evidence of Bucky’s fingers gripping you as he held you against him. You had inspected them the morning after, when they were still fresh and swollen, all along your thighs, your arms, the one on your hip glaring and bright. Now they’re a deep purple, slowly fading into yellow. Your fingers shift to where the sweater exposes your collarbone, feeling the tenderness of the bite mark he left there to hide under your shirt collar for days. 

You liked it. You still do like the reminder of what brought you here to this position. It makes you think that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t kidding yourself with your desire for him.

The main room of the apartment is much warmer than the office. There’s an ambient glow from the street outside, casting golden light from the streetlamps inward against the ceiling. The blinds are still open in the dining room; you find yourself drifting over to gaze out at the purple sky and the building across the street, with so many windows behind which people are living their own various lives. You think that maybe, like yourself, there’s someone there who’s pondering their own choices. 

You try to distract yourself, your fingers dancing over the handcuffs left on the table. They’re inactive now, as far as you can tell. You realize that you’re still shaking, but you don’t think it’s from the cold this time. You drop your shoulders- _when did they get so tense-_ but it’s difficult to stop yourself from shivering. 

Then you hear him say your name. It’s enough to stop you cold, your entire system freezing in one go. It’s the first time he’s said it, and you never even bothered to tell it to him in the first place; you assumed he found it through some SHIELD database, considering he also found where you were living before. 

You turn slowly and find Bucky standing just at the door of the master bedroom, shirtless in a pair of sweatpants. _My god, he’s beautiful._ You almost forget the turmoil you were thrown into by him saying your name for the first time.

“Thought I heard something,” he explains, as if he really needs a reason to move about his own home. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head, crossing your arms across your middle in an attempt to stop shivering. “You?”

“I don’t sleep, normally.” He shrugs and steps around the dining table, coming toward you. To see him approach you in the dark like this nearly startles you, and you move backward slightly, bumping your hip against the table. He stops, his hand just barely touching the wood beside him, and fixes you with a piercing stare. “Something wrong?”

“No.”

“Yes, there is.” He leans toward you slightly, coaxing you to look him in the face. When you do, the effort it takes to not look away again is excruciating. “What’s bothering you?”

You can’t help but snort a little laugh through your nose. “How is it that you can read my mind, but I can’t seem to read yours?”

He tilts his head to the side, but his expression doesn’t change. He’s waiting for you to tell him what has you so tense, and he probably isn’t going to leave you alone until you do.

You open your mouth to speak, and then close it. You can’t land on a way to tell him your thoughts without sounding needy or desperate, and that’s the absolute last thing you want right now. You look away from him finally, trying to search for the words to begin. Then you feel his hand close over yours on the table, and you look back to him. 

“What am I doing here?” You ask him, because it all really boils down to that one question. What does he want with you, and why are you here if you aren’t some kind of charity case?

“What do you want to do here?” His voice is soft and low, and you can’t sense any sarcasm in it. 

You bring a shaking hand up to your forehead and close your eyes. Of course, it wouldn’t be so difficult if he wasn’t asking your opinion. “I don’t know, I just- I’m used to everyone around me deciding things for me.” You stop and take a sharp breath as you feel his thumb drag across your knuckles. “I just… I just want to know what you expect of me.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says openly, and when you begin to shake your head in disbelief he continues, “I’m gonna do whatever you want.”

“I can’t-” you stutter out, still shaking your head, “I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Why would you be presumptuous?”

“Because I just want _you,”_ you blurt out, your heart pounding in your chest. “But I don’t expect you to want me back.”

His hand pauses over yours for just a second before he moves toward you, and you barely have enough time to raise your head before he hoists you up onto the dining table, positioning himself between your knees. You’re suddenly reminded of your complete nakedness aside from your sweater, and your eyes widen when the fabric of his sweatpants just barely brushes against your pussy. 

He catches your chin between his fingers and tilts your head to look him in the eye. He gazes directly into you, his metal hand grazing slowly down your thigh. 

“Of course I want you,” he says quietly, just above a whisper. “You’re my best girl.”

Your breath hitches as his fingers trail softly down the line of your throat until he brushes the collar of your sweater aside, and his eyes fall to the bite mark he left on your skin. His hand cups the curve of your shoulder as he leans forward and presses a kiss to it, his lips warm and soft against the tender bruise. You let your eyes flutter shut as he trails kisses up the side of your neck, and then his lips just barely brush your ear. 

“You have to tell me what you want, darling,” he whispers, his hot breath hitting your ear. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you unintentionally clench your thighs against either side of his hips. 

“I- I want you,” you manage to repeat, your hand pressing against the hot skin on his chest. You’re lost in the feeling of the closeness, wanting to just keep him there against you. 

_“Mhm,”_ his finger trails up your thigh, pausing at the junction of your leg, and you can feel him smile against your skin as he discovers just how exposed you are. “Which part of me?”

 _How am I supposed to choose?_ His finger is tracing a line along your hip, his lips are peppering kisses along your jaw, and now you’re trembling, but it’s not from the cold or from tension. 

He pauses just before he presses a kiss to your lips, the cool metal of his hand lifting your chin a touch so that you meet his eye. You can feel his breath against your lips, his face teasingly close to yours. 

“Do you want my mouth? My fingers?” He asks, his hand wrapping slowly around the side of your neck. “Or do you want my cock?”

You stare into his eyes for just a moment, his words ringing in your ears. And then you decide you want his lips on you more than anything. “Your mouth.”

He doesn’t waste any time. The heat of his mouth on yours is sin, and you melt against him, clinging to his shoulders for support. His arm comes around your waist to pull you flush against him, his fingers tugging at the bottom of your sweater. You raise your arms and he jerks it up over your head, tossing it somewhere to the side. You feel a rush of air on your bare skin, your mind swimming and pulse beating loudly in your ears. 

He kisses you slowly now, and you wonder exactly where he finds all this restraint as he guides you backwards, laying you down against the wooden table. His hands slide from your breasts to your waist, and then they rest on the dining table as he kisses slowly down your chin, then further down your throat, and suddenly you realize what he’s doing. He’s using only his mouth to taste and touch any part of you, because you told him to. The idea is heartwarming and suffocating at the same time. You’d love for his hands to be on you too, or hell, all of him, but somehow this seems right. 

You sigh softly as he runs his tongue down the valley between your breasts, lifting your hand to run through his hair. _Yes, this is exactly right._ He drags his tongue along your skin before sucking your nipple into his mouth, drawing a moan from you. He does the same to the other, tongue connected to your skin and sucking against your nipple until your finger tightens on his hair, his eyes watching your face for every expression of pleasure you make. 

You arch against his mouth as he kisses down along your stomach. He finds the deep purple bruise that he had crushed into your hip the first time and presses his lips sweetly against it, lighter than every other kiss. He does the same to each bruise he can see, kissing them sweetly and softly like a whisper of a breath against your skin, and it’s driving you absolutely mad. The gesture is not lost on you; he’s somehow trying to right whatever wrongs he did you, any harm he gave to you. If only he knew how much you actually liked them… you make a mental note to tell him later, that you don’t mind seeing the evidence in the morning. But for now, his lips press light kisses to the bruises on your thighs, and your heart feels like it could absolutely burst. 

He’s on his knees now before you as you lay atop the table, and he runs his mouth along the inside of your thigh, toward your core. Your hand finds his on the edge of the table, and for some reason you feel like you need to have some sort of contact with his hands, if only to urge him onward. You lace your fingers with his and squeeze, feeling his hand flex against your own. 

And then his tongue slides along your cunt, soft and hotter than hell, and you gasp with the sudden sensation. You open your thighs wider for him, as if doing that will make his mouth touch more of you. Your eyes fall shut and then everything falls away except his tongue, parting your slit and licking a long stroke up, and his lips closing over your clit to suck long and hard against it. 

_“God-”_ Your hips nearly leave the table with how hard you jerk against him, your sudden squeal cutting off whatever you were going to say next. You don’t really know if there are any words for what you’re feeling, just that you can’t possibly get enough of what he’s doing to you. 

Your fingernails scratch along the wooden table before you manage to reach forward and lace your fingers through his hair, the tension in your core somehow expressing itself in your fingers tightening against his head. It takes only a second for his free hand to reach up and grab yours, bringing it down to the table and holding it there in the same way as the other, the duality of flesh and metal against your hands. 

Then he moans as he continues to lick up your folds, and the vibration of his mouth against your cunt is nearly too much for you to handle. Your breath gets stuck in your chest and your leg twitches, your bare heel sliding up against his back. You’re somehow sweating despite the cold, muscles tightening low in your abdomen as his tongue continues to dance over your clit, and you feel fit to burst. 

_“Fuck,_ I’m gonna come,” you gasp as he presses his tongue flat against you, his upper lip grazing across your clit. 

He hums something against your skin that has the same intonation as, _“so do it,”_ and he sucks your clit into his mouth again. He draws your orgasm from you, pulling every moan and gasp downwards and into himself as you spasm against him. Your fingers dig into his hands, head arched back against the table as he continues to work you over until there’s nothing left, and you settle back into the wood with shortened breaths. 

His mouth only leaves you once your breathing slows, and he pushes himself up between your legs, his face grazing along the line of your body until he finds your mouth, bent over you over the table, and kisses you fully. You can taste yourself on his mouth and it burns something within your chest as his hands finally caress your sides and he holds you there against him. 

“Are we ever going to do this on a bed?” You ask after he breaks away from your mouth, nuzzling his nose against yours. You think his eyes are closed, but you can’t tell in the dim light. 

You can still feel the chuckle that rolls through his chest against yours. “Yeah, if you feel like moving into the bedroom with me, we can do this whenever you like.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles against your skin, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips. “Been waiting for you to come sleep with me.”

“Does your room get heat?”

He pulls back and looks at you, and now you can see that his eyes are open and looking at you with complete confusion. “What?”

“The radiator in the office is a fucking _bastard,”_ you tell him. “If there’s heat in the bedroom, you’re never getting rid of me.”

“Oh,” he says as he draws his hand up your side, his fingers skimming across your breast. “Well, in that case, I’ll get a dozen heaters for the bedroom.”

“Wow that’s… really sexy of you.”

His hand settles on the table beside your head. _“That’s_ what you find sexy about me?”

“Well it’s not like you’ve given me much else to work with,” you mutter sarcastically and earn a laugh from him as he drops his head against your shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Don’t know,” he says as he pulls back, and takes your hand to pull you upright, “don’t really care. You need sleep, and I have to go in in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

“Oh, _pardon me.”_ He picks up your sweater from the floor and looks at you. “Arms up.”

You frown, but you do as you're told. Bucky pulls the sweater down over your head and adjusts the sleeves around your wrists before pulling your arms back down to wrap around his shoulders, and then he’s hauling you up again, holding the backs of your thighs with your legs around his waist. 

“What is it with you needing to be between my legs?” You ask as he carries you toward the bedroom, his face inches from yours. 

“I did say it was the key to happiness, didn’t I?” You barely manage out a laugh before you’re practically thrown onto a rather plush mattress, and Bucky draws a blanket up over you to punctuate his entire performance. 

You feel the effects of drowsiness setting in as Bucky crawls onto the bed beside you, and his head settles onto the pillow next to yours. You sigh softly as his arm wraps around you, pulling you into him yet again and you’re vaguely aware of your last thought before sleep being that yes, maybe it is the key to happiness after all. 


End file.
